“For Christ’s sake, Elaine!” he hisses, and he places the cans of beer on the counter, as if to free his hands. He stares at her, willing her to be silent, to be happy, to be proud of him, to love his brother and his brother’s wife and child. To be grateful. “We’ll talk later,” he says, and returns to the living room.
Elaine goes on peeling the potatoes. It’s nearly dark, and the kitchen, facing east, settles into shadow first. Crossing the room to the light switch by the door, she comes to stand at the threshold, where she watches and listens to the others, who are staring at an object placed in the middle of the coffee table. Surrounded by empty beer cans and ashtrays, cigarette packs and butane lighters, the Sunday newspaper and a copy of People, settled in the midst of the clutter but organizing and diminishing it, lies a large, dark blue pistol. Sarah, her legs still crossed, stares at the gun as if it were a small, dead, slightly repulsive animal. Eddie looks at it proudly, as if he has just killed it, and Bob looks at it with confusion, as if he has been asked to skin it.
Eddie reaches into the side pocket of his seersucker jacket and draws out a small green package of bullets and places the box on the table next to the pistol. “You’ll want these,” he says. Eddie, who people sometimes say resembles the actor Steve McQueen, snaps his curly blond head to attention and, with his lips pursed, studies his younger brother’s face for a second.
“Is it loaded?” Elaine asks from the doorway.
“Not now,” Eddie answers. “But it will be tomorrow.”
From the sofa, Sarah glances quickly up at Elaine, fails to catch her eye and goes back to the staring out the window at the side of the trailer next door. “I don’t know why you need a gun,” she says to the window.
“You mean you don’t know why Bob needs a gun,” Eddie says cheerfully. “Me you know.” He grins up at Elaine, still standing in the doorway, and pats his jacket under his left arm.
“Are you carrying a gun? Right now?” Elaine asks. “Here?”
“Sure.”
Bob reaches over and plucks the pistol off the table, turns it over in his hand and examines it carefully. He releases the magazine, slaps it back, hefts the gun in his right hand. He studies the hand with the gun in it, as if memorizing it.
“Why do you have to carry a gun?” Elaine asks.
In a swift, unbroken motion, a practiced move, Eddie lifts his butt from the couch, darts his right hand into his back trousers pocket, brings forth his wallet and flips it open, revealing an inch-thick stack of bills. “That’s why, honey. I’m in business here, seven fucking days a week I’m in business, and a lot of what I do gets done in cash, or else I wouldn’t be in business very long. You understand,” he says, winking at Bob.
“I guess so,” Bob says. “You mean because of taxes and so on?”
“Yeah … yeah, that, sure. There’s a lot of stuff I have to keep off the books. Your fuckin’ salary, for instance. Which is all to your advantage, you understand; all it saves me is bookkeeping. But there’s a lot more things I gotta worry about that you don’t hafta even think about, like deliveries, for instance, and working with the fucking trade unions trying to get that new store over in Lakeland set up and built …” he says. “All you got to worry about for now is selling booze across the counter, keeping the shelves stocked, putting in your weekly orders and making your nightly deposits at the bank. I take care of the rest.”
“So why does Bob need a gun?” Elaine asks.
The others, even Sarah, look at her as if she is simple minded. “Elaine, honey,” Eddie says, smiling. “You are not in Catamount, Cow Hampshire, anymore, sweetie.”
“Don’t call me sweetie. Please.”
“Okay, okay. Sorry.”
“Things are different here, Elaine,” Bob says.
“You bet your ass things are different here. We got niggers with guns and razors here,” Eddie says, suddenly serious. “We got Cubans who cut your balls off. We got Haitians with their fucking voodoo sacrifices and Jamaicans with machetes as long as your fucking arm. We got dark-skinned crazies of all kinds, all hopped up on their fucking pot and cocaine, riding around in brand-new Mercedes-Benzes without enough pocket money to put gas in the tanks. We got Colombians, for Christ’s sake, with fucking machine guns!”
“Oh, come on, Eddie, you’re going to send them back to New Hampshire scared out of their wits. It’s not that bad,” Sarah says. “Honest.” She unfolds her legs and takes a slow sip of her beer. “It’s not like Miami,” she adds, stretching her arms overhead and arching her back like a cat. She’s wearing a beige pantsuit that accentuates her tan and the long angularity of her body. Bob once saw her naked and was surprised at how closely her body resembled an adolescent boy’s body, long, tight, smooth, with tiny breasts, like white circles on her chest. He was also surprised by how attractive he found her body. It was in his and Elaine’s own bedroom in Catamount one hot summer afternoon a few years earlier, when Eddie, Sarah and Jessica had come up for a week in June to visit them and examine summer camps in New Hampshire for Jessica. Because of the unusual heat, Bob came home from work earlier than usual, and finding the house empty, guessed everyone had gone to the lake for a swim. When he strolled into his bedroom he caught Sarah there, naked, sitting on the edge of the bed painting her toenails. She looked up as he entered and made no attempt to hide herself from him. Her dark hair, cut short, was wet and brushed back like a swimmer’s, and to Bob she looked so clean and precise, so apparent and without mystery or guile, that he felt a great longing to make love to her, which surprised and frightened him and sent him back down the hall and rapidly down the stairs. At the bottom of the stairs, he turned, looked up and waited, as if he expected Sarah to appear there. After a few seconds, he took a long pull on his beer, swallowed and hollered, “Hey, I’m sorry, Sarah. I thought nobody was home!”
“That’s okay,” she called. “Everyone’s gone swimming. I stayed home to take a nap and a shower. I’m sure I’ll end up feeling better than they will.”
“Yeah,” he said. He knew from the music in her voice that if he went back up the stairs and entered the bedroom, took off his clothes and started kissing her along her throat, she would not even pretend to stop him, and afterwards she would never say a word about it to him or anyone else. That is the moment he remembers now whenever he looks straight at Sarah. He still can’t decide whether his decision to sit in his chair in the living room until Sarah was dressed and cheerfully downstairs was the right decision, for, like most people, Bob finds it difficult to know right from wrong. He relies on taboos and circumstances to control his behavior, to make him a “good man,” so that on those infrequent occasions when neither taboo nor circumstance prohibits him from satisfying an appetite and he does not satisfy that appetite or even attempt to do so, he does not know what to think of himself. He doesn’t know if he has been a good man or merely a stupid or scared man. Most people, like Bob, unchurched since childhood, now and then reach that point of not knowing whether they’ve been good, stupid or scared, and the anxiety it provokes obliges them to cease wondering as soon as possible and bury the question, as a dog buries a bone, marking it and promising to themselves that they will return to the bone later, when they have the time and energy to gnaw, a promise never kept, of course, and rarely meant to be kept. One of the more attractive aspects of Bob’s character, however, is his reluctance to bury these bones, his willingness to go on gnawing into the night, alone and silent, turning it over and upside down, persisting until finally it is white and dry and, in certain lights, a little ghastly. His memory is cluttered with these bones, like a medieval church basement, and it gives to his manner and bearing a kind of melancholy that attracts people who are more educated or refined than he is.